


A Little Bit of Truth

by RurouniHime



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Questions, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-20
Updated: 2011-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even older Immortals know how to play the occasional game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Bit of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Contains spoilers for the television series, starting with "Methos." Major spoilers for the Something Wicked arc, the Comes a Horseman arc, Timeless and Archangel.

**A Little Bit of Truth**

 

 _Part 1: Duncan_

They weren't speaking. And this time it wasn't a fight.

Well, Duncan supposed that technically it was a fight; a three-thousand-year-old fight, which he had had no part in for the majority, not being born at the time. But then there was always the more recent five-year-old fight involving the death of a rather important young… student, followed by the worst few months Duncan had experienced in a long time. And that one, Duncan had been the bloody cause of, so really, turmoil about blue Wode paint and a decided lack of a conscience was old hat.

Still, it was frightening that Methos was not speaking, because Methos had always, always had the ability to speak, right from the day Duncan had walked in on his life and disrupted just about everything he could get his well-meaning hands on. Methos talked and talked, mostly about mundane things like rather horrifying ancient Latin recipes that Duncan really didn't have the constitution to listen to objectively. He talked about the perfect level of acidity in the paper of perishable historical texts and he talked about the incumbent evils of "operatic squawking." Sarcastic comments, witty but blatant banter at Duncan's expense… It had all fallen silent.

The past had intruded once again, quieting both their voices until all they could manage was a scant good morning as they passed each other on the way to the shower, or a nervous dancing about the kitchen as each tried to get out of the other's way.

Methos sat now, on the couch across the loft with his knees tucked up, supporting the book he was reading. Something dog-eared, with the faded cover seconds away from bidding the rest of the book a tearful farewell. But he had not turned a page in some hours. Of course the only reason Duncan knew this was that he had taken to studying the other man in lieu of fiddling with the same old screws in that blasted broken clock again.

Why couldn't he just speak to Methos anymore? It wasn't even as if another Kronos had crawled out of the ether, or another Coltec had arrived to irretrievably ruin Duncan's perception of himself. It had been nothing but a damnable mistake on the anniversary of Alexa's death, and it had occurred right there in their kitchen.

Methos had come home drawn and half-soaked in beer. Duncan had just taken a rather sadistic Quickening from an interloper hailing from medieval Spain. Methos had seen fit to point out the 'annoyance' of arriving home to find that one's lover had obviously and spitefully attempted to make the anniversary of another lover's death into a double feature. Duncan had shot back choice words in the lingering voice of the man he'd just beheaded. Methos had volleyed with something involving 'a damnable Dark addict.' And somewhere down the line of hazy yelling that neither of them would remember clearly in the morning, Duncan had gone back to the old standby of Methos' selective truthfulness with the people he was supposedly in love with, as least as far as the ancient Immortal's past was concerned.

Perhaps using Alexa as an example had not been the best idea. But then, Methos' insult about picking off one's own students had been in rather bad taste as well.

A month ago. Duncan couldn't remember why he'd ever preferred the quiet to the conversation. Methos' past was a third bedmate, even when the sex was good, and Duncan could feel his own ghosts sitting on the couch between them whenever they thought to collapse there. Methos would stick his feet into Duncan's lap, Duncan would cup them in his palms—and they would sit. And not speak. Pretending that contact was enough, while hearing nothing but the pressing, shifting silence.

Last night, Duncan had nearly choked upon realizing that they were no longer making love. Just going through the motions. The gasps and bruised lips and clenching of muscles were the same, but for the first time, he hadn't known what was running through Methos' mind when he stroked him to hardness. When Methos shuddered under the brush of tongue over his throat. Hadn't been able to see it.

Duncan chewed his lip, watching Methos fidget on the couch, trying to find a more comfortable position.

"I have an idea." His own voice sounded like a whipcrack in the stillness, and Methos jerked into rigidity. And turned to look at him.

"What…" The older Immortal cleared his throat. "What is it then?"

Duncan looked at the strained shoulders under the soft white sweater, those long, elegant feet sticking out from the legs of Methos' jeans, and knew that there were more important things right then than the possibility of burning ears.

So he told him.

~

"So."

"So," Methos echoed, and the silence fell again. Duncan tilted one of the unopened beer bottles in his hand and listened to Methos think. The ancient Immortal was pacing the kitchen with slow, measured steps. It had taken only a few words for their positions to switch, and now Duncan had the couch and the reddening ears, and two bottles of beer to clink together uselessly in his hands.

And a humongous elephant lurking in the corner of the room.

It wasn't his job to come up with everything, he thought irately. He'd come up with the bloody idea all by himself; he couldn't be expected to get things started on his own. Methos had a hand in this too, and Duncan's mind had gone horribly blank with relief at the first tentative acceptance of his smashing idea. They'd even laid a few ground rules: only three or four times a week, and agreeing to not be afraid of getting into the especially nitty-gritty details. In fact, details had been something of a requirement.

But Duncan really had no idea how to begin the baring of one's soul. Not with this man. His courage seemed to have fled along with Methos' flat expression.

"Alright then."

Duncan braced himself, wondering what he was going to be asked to say first.

"What's your favorite ice cream?" Methos said loftily, fashioning each word into its own deliberate statement. Duncan turned to stare at him.

"My favorite—That's our first question?"

Methos shrugged. It was amazing that such an old man could still pass off as innocent. "Best to start at the beginning. Work our way up."

Duncan rolled his eyes, punching one of the throw pillows repeatedly. "Oh yes, work our way up. That's brilliant."

"MacLeod…"

"You know, I've got a question for you—"

"Ice cream, MacLeod," Methos drawled loudly.

"Strawberry," Duncan snapped in a sudden rush of exasperation. Almost immediately—

"Pistachio."

Duncan turned and found Methos leaning over the counter, that maddening smile quirking about his lips. The older Immortal winked.

Duncan returned the gaze for a long, gentling moment, then lifted his arm and tossed one of the bottles across the room. "Beer?"

Methos caught it before he'd finished the word.

~

People were beginning to stare.

"Oh, and how in hell is that supposed to be a telling aspect of our lives?"

"For god's sake, Adam, I only asked if you liked hardbound or paperback!"

Methos slammed his pint down on the bar, sloshing a considerable amount over the lip of the glass. "Exactly! You're not even trying, MacLeod, and this was your bloody idea."

"You were the one who wanted to start slowly!" Duncan countered.

"That was over a week ago. Might as well be your frustratingly mundane self and ask which century I liked best."

Duncan leaned forward, annoyance threatening to close his throat. "I did. On Tuesday. _You_ changed the subject!"

"Well, if you had just answered the question about weapons of choice, not including swords, you wouldn't have had to bother with centuries!"

A fist knocked lightly on the bar in front of them, and Duncan and Methos both looked up to see Joe standing there, a half-dry glass tumbler in one hand. Joe's eyebrows were nearly at his hairline; he glanced as surreptitiously as he could around the room, which wasn't saying much, as they already had the entire bar's attention. "You boys wanna keep it down?"

Methos snorted, shoving his stout away and hunching his shoulders. "No. As a matter of fact, I found out on Thursday" -pausing to glare at Duncan— "that Mac doesn't like to _keep it down_. Never has. Though it's news to me. And apparently I can confirm it with Amanda."

Joe's nonplussed gaze swiveled to Duncan and he felt his neck flush. "It was your damn question," he hissed at his lover.

Methos turned scarlet, but it wasn't in embarrassment. He pointed a long finger at Duncan's forehead. "If I'd known you were going to make jokes about it, I would never have told you why I'm not loud during intimacy," he spat.

Joe was starting to look a little fearful. Duncan sat back, stretching his arms out, nearly unsettling the woman on the barstool next to him. "I was trying to lighten the mood! You were red enough to stop traffic."

"Maybe it's because I'm not used to being so candid with my privacy!" Methos shot back. He grabbed his stout and put over half of it away with one swig. "Next time, I'll remember whose company I'm in," he continued, sarcasm sloshing from his words like the beer had sloshed out of his glass.

Joe rescued the rest of Methos' pint with a canny swipe and stepped safely away from the old Immortal. "I think it's about time you headed home, Pierson."

Duncan snorted in agreement, until he reached for his own beer and found that it too had disappeared. "Wh— Joe, I paid for that!"

"Thought you'd finished," Joe said in a bland tone. Duncan was about to get to his feet when Methos began to laugh. It wasn't a particularly pretty sound.

"Oh, he's never finished, Joe. Never ever. He's Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and honor must be satisfied. Everybody? Drinks are on me."

"Oh, no, you don't, you haven't answered my question!" Duncan grabbed for Methos' arm and gripped tightly to his sleeve, seething, "Paperback, or hardback?"

The look in Methos' alcohol-drenched eyes could have slaughtered a charging rhinoceros. "Papyrus," he said through gritted teeth.

Duncan thought he heard Joe sigh.

~

"Alright then," Duncan gasped, sticking his sword tip into the ground and hauling himself to his feet. A strong hand braced one of his arms, and fingers curled around his to lift the sword away. Methos steadied Duncan against the length of his body, and Duncan saw him wince at some wayward spark of their latest Quickening.

"Good god, your shirt is absolutely unsalvageable," Methos muttered.

Duncan sucked in a breath. "Your most embarrassing kiss?"

The other Immortal nudged at the fallen body of Duncan's now headless opponent distastefully, kicking the bloodied sword with more spite than his tone let on. "Why, it was our first one, Mac. Of course."

Duncan stopped abruptly, dragging Methos to a halt. The older Immortal hissed at the leftover prickle of sensation and glared at Duncan balefully. Duncan glared right back.

"You know, Methos, I was just nearly sawed in half by an irate Australian convict from Britain who was actually alive when there _were_ still Australian convicts from Britain. The least you could do is humor me."

"That wasn't humorous?" Methos countered. Duncan twisted his face even more and Methos threw back his head in defeat. "Fine. Just don't slam on the brakes like that again, MacLeod. Wait until the man's damned soul has finished raking over our collective nerves."

"You know, I think you enjoy this. Yes, watch Duncan take a head, then revel in the afterglow. Like feeding off someone's damn cable network."

Methos jerked him straight with a tad more force than was absolutely necessary and Duncan gritted his teeth. "Like a drug, Mac," he muttered in Duncan's ear. Methos patted his chest, and his palm lingered, familiar and warm. "Like a drug."

Duncan took the first steady breath he'd taken in minutes, and heard Methos' long sigh echo his on the way out. They began to walk. Slow, baby steps.

"It was a girl in…" Methos' eyes flickered shut and he hesitated, waiting on the memory. "1304. Or perhaps 1305. She was seventeen, convinced herself I was nineteen, and told her father I was twenty-seven. I've no idea why she even said anything to him, he was a bloody constable or some such nonsense. Oh, look, there's the car."

Duncan prodded him. "Oh, look, there's the red herring."

Methos' eyes were positively slitted. "Duncan, I'm sure you've better questions to ask me. Such as which Immortal I'd just love to meet, or whether I like my linguini with mushrooms or jalapeno peppers."

"I already know how much you adore mushrooms. And the other wouldn't be fair because _I've_ already met the Immortal I'd like to meet most. He was, as a matter of fact, about to humiliate himself royally for my pleasure." Duncan wiggled his eyebrows at Methos and thought he saw the crack of a smile. But the other man simply furrowed his brow at him.

Duncan smirked and leaned in, feeling the listing ache of a half-healed near-gutting in his belly. "Mine's worth it," he whispered temptingly.

Methos' golden eyes glittered. He lifted his chin. "She aimed for my mouth and wound up with my ear. Didn't expect I'd try to get away from her, oh, no, _perish_ the thought. But the fact that it was my ear… didn't exactly stop her. The following week was the one and only time I actually stabbed myself through the heart with my own sword, Mac. That ear infection wouldn't bloody go away till I was dead."

Duncan laughed outright, heedless of the consequences until he doubled over. Methos caught him halfway to the ground, wrapping his arms around him and holding on until the searing pain faded. Duncan felt hands through the rips in his clothing, probing over still-tender skin with the touch of a lover. "It's mending. Damn it, Mac. Next time there's a falchion involved, I'm shooting the bastard."

For once, Duncan couldn't find it in him to argue. Methos guided them closer to the car, and his demeanor grew lighter. "So then. Where's my payback?"

Duncan stuck out a hand and lowered himself onto the hood of the car gingerly. "It involves a woman, a broken lantern, and the last pig I'll ever go near when I've been drinking."

Methos' brows shot up. He leaned against the car very deliberately and crossed his arms. "Sounds like Chaucer."

* * *

 

 _Part 2: Methos_

Methos clenched his jaw hard enough to send spikes of fire through his skull. He glowered at Duncan. "I don't much appreciate your tone, MacLeod."

Duncan actually sneered at him. "Oh? And which tone would you prefer? You do remember why we have swords, right?"

Why, why was this always so damned difficult? He wanted a beer, but not to drink. He wanted it so he could fling the cap at Duncan's left eye on its way over the fridge. "I don't remember all that well anymore. Must be my Alzheimer's." It was a supreme effort not to mock his lover, and in the end, he suspected he hadn't succeeded.

The grinding of Duncan's teeth was audible. "His name was Ravis. And now he'll be in a bad mood when we see him again. It's not exactly fun to have Immortals running around with grudges against you, Methos."

"Oh, thank you so much for informing me of the situation. I'm only five thousand after all, no way under the sun that I might already know that!"

Duncan's nostrils flared. "You shouldn't have shot him!"

"Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to fight?" Methos tossed his jacket onto the couch so forcefully that it knocked a pillow off. "I don't enjoy fighting like you do, Highlander. Unlike you, I might just lose."

"Bull shit." Duncan jerked his katana free of his trench and tossed the coat onto the nearest chair. He stabbed a finger in the direction of the elevator. "He's young! It wouldn't have taken you more than a minute to give him the courtesy of a fair fight!"

"Oh, that's nice, MacLeod. Excuse me for not wanting to risk my neck over that plebeian ingrate! He would have given up in another day anyway."

Duncan was shaking his head in that damnably superior way of his. "You have no idea if he would have. For all we know, he would have snuck in here while we were asleep—"

"I thought you'd be glad that I didn't take his head while he was wallowing in his death."

"I'm surprised you didn't," Duncan said with an unbecoming sneer. "If I hadn't been there watching you, you probably would have! Easiest way out and all."

"In the name of all that is still holy, MacLeod, this wouldn't even be an issue if you hadn't waited for him! Led him right to us. To _me_. If I weren't so enamored with you, I'd take your head myself for that kind of betrayal."

A week ago, it might have been funny. But even Methos heard the startling edge to his own words. Duncan's eyes darkened and for a moment, Methos thought the man was going to launch himself at him.

"I would never betray you. You were more than a match for him and you damn well know it."

"Sure, sure. More than a match." Oh, he wanted to do so much more than roll his eyes. Duncan was right; the man hadn't been much of a fighter. More the type to try to knock one's head off with sheer force. But this was no time to become agreeable. "Never mind that your brilliant plans always have a way of backfiring. _On me_."

"Well, sure they do, when you're so determined to prove me wrong! You know, I wouldn't put it past you to go out and get your head chopped off just to make sure I was wrong about it!"

"Such a bloody pessimist. Don't you ever think good thoughts, MacLeod? Not even once?"

Duncan stilled abruptly. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Methos laughed. Hard not to; he had several sarcastic Immortal gits poking around in his head these days, thanks to his idiot of a lover. "You can't see the bright side of anything! God, MacLeod, I just wanted the week to ourselves, but you couldn't let him go."

Duncan did stride toward him this time, stopping only feet away and looking quite dangerous. "He was following us! He'd _been_ following us. Someone had to be paying attention. You certainly could have cared less."

Methos couldn't be arsed to fight against his own anger this time. The man was a walking, talking, head-lopping frustration. "I don't need to care when I've got you hovering over me like a swarm of locusts! You know, sometimes I just can't see why you—" He stopped and lifted his chin, feeling satisfaction crash through him at last. "Alright then, I've got a question for you for today, Mac."

"Go ahead," his lover spat, brows lowering.

"What is the thing about me that bugs you the most? And make good use of your answer because I have _loads_ to tell you!"

Duncan looked taken aback for a split second, and then a threatening light rose in his eyes. His lip curled. "You first. Please."

"Alright." Methos nodded jerkily and leaned forward. "Your constant, useless pessimism! Oh, Mac, you have no idea how annoying it is to listen to you go on and on about the trials and tribulations of the world. Sacrifice this, noble that. My very own martyr."

"Each to his own, Methos," Duncan managed through clenched teeth. "The reason why I'm so pessimistic is because you are so contagious!"

Methos nodded. Felt nerves firing. He could practically feel Duncan's energy pulsing through the room. "Good. Good, yes, don't skimp, Duncan, I'm ancient enough to take it. Do I get another one?"

Duncan nodded, breathing hard through his nose. "Sure, why not? We've got all night."

"I hate," Methos stated, ignoring the humorless snort that came from the other man, "the way you just have to be right about everyone, fit all your little ideals to their actions. Not everyone is as _perfect_ as you!"

"And I hate how you're determined to treat everything like some amusing rollercoaster! 'Hey Joe, where's the beer, killed anyone today, Mac? I'm five thousand years old, what the hell do I care?'"

"Well, I hate how you can't take a bloody joke once in a while! Everyone within five miles has got to be as serious as Duncan MacLeod!" Methos curled his lip. "Like living with a Buckingham guard. It's no small wonder I carry a gun; I feel like shooting myself half the time anyway!"

Duncan glowered at him, breathing hard. "Yeah, well, you're no peach to live with yourself, Methos! At least I make an effort to listen to your pathetic rants about whatever happens to be pissing you off at the moment! God knows I'd rather jump out the window."

Methos stepped closer. "I hate how you have to make the damned bed every morning!"

"I hate how you leave your clothing all over my loft like you own the place, and you never clean up after your books!"

"Your constant twitching when I'm trying to read!"

"The way you quirk your eyebrow like the rest of the world has the IQ of a yak!"

They were nose to nose. Methos practically shouted it. "Your obsession with tan colored clothing!"

"All those damned ratty sweaters!"

Methos sucked in a breath, forced it out, sucked in another—They were standing so close— Duncan grabbed him, yanking him up against his body and kissing him hard enough to bruise his lips. With a moan, Methos lunged at his lover, got handfuls of hair, and kissed him back as deeply as he could, as he ever had. Duncan swayed, righted himself. Groped down Methos' back and up again as if he couldn't decide where to touch first.

"God, Methos—"

"No, shut up." He tugged at Duncan's shirt. "We'll get to the rest later."

"Fine—mm, fine by me—"

Methos nodded. It was the last coherent thing either of them did for a long time.

~

The next question came to Methos with enough stealth to startle him, but as the day went on, the utter shock of it sifted away slowly, as through an hourglass and the tick of seconds.

It was more than a risk. Duncan could react very badly indeed. But even with the possibilities staring him in the face, Methos knew he would ask it, because of what it was, and what _they_ were.

He sat at the table and swirled his glass of wine, and thought about the obviousness of the answer he would get. He knew the name Duncan would give; he'd have to be stupid not to know.

It was the reasoning behind it all that might broaden their horizons.

The words came easily enough, slipping off his tongue like water. "Who is the Immortal you most regret killing… And why?"

Duncan looked up at him slowly. The firelight flickered over his features, and Methos could taste the oregano strongly in his mouth, the tang of lemon from the chicken they'd eaten for dinner.

"That's… a loaded question."

Methos did not look away. "I know."

Duncan's eyes hollowed. Something turned sleepily in their depths. "You know the answer."

"Yes, I do."

His lover just gazed at him for another long moment. The fire crackled; one of the logs broke and shifted on the hearth. Duncan relinquished his gaze abruptly and rose, taking his dishes with him to the sink. Methos heard the clink of glass, the quick rush of water.

At last Duncan's bare feet padded back over the carpet. He sat. Studied the tabletop. Methos waited.

"Richie." Duncan breathed. Looked up and fixed Methos with the most piercing stare he'd ever been the subject of. "Because I loved him with everything I had… and it still wasn't enough to save him."

 _From myself._

Methos had known the name already. The reason gave him pause long into the night.

Two days. Duncan's gaze was upon him and the quiet was more cacophonous than any storm. But still, Methos did not speak, and Duncan did not press. The silence never intruded upon the more trivial of their conversations, the whens and whats of eating and sleeping, but stole up instead when their voices rested. Methos spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling, at pages and pages of books he did not remember afterward.

The second night, Duncan locked the doors and led him to bed with few words. Kissed him slowly and languidly until he couldn't breathe steadily. Methos turned toward him and wrapped himself around him. Eventually wrapped Duncan within him. His lover took his time, touching lips to his forehead, to his mouth, stroking inside his body and outside, and his slow, thorough movements coaxed Methos until—

"It's Silas," he gasped out at last, as Duncan touched that excruciatingly blessed place inside his body again. He clutched Duncan's shoulders and pulled, rolled his hips until the tremble threatened, and bit back a whimper. "Silas' life I regret taking."

Duncan's heat-black eyes sought for him and caught him, levering him up. He opened Methos' mouth in a heavy kiss, and Methos' thoughts cascaded like the tears he would never shed.

 _Because he could have been a good man but for what we DeathPestilenceFamineWar gave to him._

He traced over dusky skin, sank into warmth, threaded his fingers through dark, wayward hair, and looked up. Duncan's face was flushed in the dim light.

 _Because many times I have cherished killing him, for the connection it gave me to you. And that feels both right and wrong._

Duncan did not ask him to explain.

~

It was dark out, and the winter air felt crisp and achingly cold against Methos' face. He drew a deep breath and relished the minty chill that slid down his throat and into his lungs. "You know, I think I can safely say that I am a winter child," he stated.

Duncan turned his woolen-capped head and peered sideways at him. His eyes were a warm, cocoa color. Beyond, strings of white lights glimmered in the treetops, casting the boulevard into twinkling faux starlight. "Well, you've only been deciding for…what, a couple thousand years? That's not all that much time."

Methos shrugged and rubbed gloved hands together. "You wouldn't believe how hard it was. There was an entire five centuries where I was sure I favored spring rain." He glanced up the street and placed a hand on Duncan's arm to stop him from stepping off the curb. A car whooshed by, spraying slush into the gutter. They continued across the road after it with quick steps.

"I think I'd like a crepe," Duncan said. His tongue came out and licked his lips. "Mm. Yeah, cinnamon."

Methos snorted. "If you can find a bloody street vendor in this godforsaken icebox."

"Hey, you agreed to come to Paris."

"No, I followed _you_ to Paris. There's a difference." Methos nodded decisively, and Duncan grinned.

"Always following me. Nothing but a stalker."

Methos leaned in as they rounded a corner, leaving the Champs-Élysées behind, and bumped the other man's shoulder. Duncan shoved him back good naturedly.

"Question," Methos said presently.

Duncan's stride slowed just a touch. "Before my crepe?"

Methos smiled to himself. He didn't really know why he wanted the answer to this particular question. But the light was just right, and he felt giddy with the cold air after such a hot autumn.

And he felt in his bones that they were ready for it.

"What's your worst reason for being with me?" he said, looking over at Duncan. The other man looked back, and Methos smiled at him innocently, lifting his eyebrows.

"You really like these loaded questions, don't you?"

Methos shrugged again. "Oh, I don't know. It's just a question."

For a few seconds, the Scotsman didn't say anything. And then Duncan grinned cheekily at him, tongue sticking out between his teeth. "Why, to pick your superior brains about the prehistoric era, of course."

"Ha." Methos blew into his hands and shivered. Leaned closer to Duncan as they walked. "Then I've probably disappointed you."

"No superior brains?"

Methos sent him a withering look. "No dinosaurs."

Duncan heaved a great sigh. "Alas, poor Duncan."

They stopped to wait for a traffic light, and Methos took the opportunity to gaze at Duncan. The taller man glanced at him, then away, and then rolled his eyes and looked back. "You're serious."

"Absolutely."

Duncan fiddled with his thick, fleece gloves - a gift from Methos, and quite a nice, cozy one if he didn't say so himself - for a moment, and rubbed at his nose restlessly. "Worst reason?"

"Bare all, MacLeod." He extended his arms to take in the entire street, the entire city.

Duncan's lip quirked, and then just as quickly, he sobered up. He didn't quite look at Methos as he answered. "Want to keep on eye on you to make sure you never become like the Horsemen again."

Methos thought about it for all of two seconds. He took another deep, cleansing breath. "There now. Not so hard, was it?"

Duncan just looked at him.

"Right," Methos muttered. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, then withdrew them again. "And my worst reason for being with you is… Oh, there's a crepe stand, look."

Duncan opened his mouth to protest, and Methos shushed him, gripping his arms with both hands. "Not an avoidance tactic. There really is a crepe stand. Look." He pointed, and Duncan glanced over his shoulder. A childlike grin slid over his heart-shaped features, opening his entire face up. Methos' heart gave a resounding thud in his chest. He had to take a moment to breathe.

They crossed the street, got Duncan a cinnamon crepe and, after much indecisiveness, chose one for Methos with bananas and chocolate - _Don't rush me, MacLeod, I've been around for millennia, I've earned the right to be a snob about sweets_ \- then headed back toward the Seine, and the barge.

"Alright then, stop stalling," Duncan said through a mouthful of sweet-smelling dessert. "It was _your_ question."

Methos swallowed the delicious morsel he was currently savoring. "Fine. My worst reason for being with you - do you really want to know?"

Duncan glared. "I hear the river is very cold this time of year."

Methos put up both hands. "Alright. Alright." He busied himself with the paper around his crepe. Damn it all, it really was more difficult to say this directly to Duncan's face. "If you must know, it's because you're too noble to take my head. Ever."

He could feel Duncan's eyes on him. Methos looked up, frowning. "What?"

Duncan shrugged. Looked thoughtful. Methos suddenly felt it very necessary to elaborate, for some stupid reason. "Look, Mac. I hide. Yes? And… and what better place to hide, right? With the only person who can never get it through his head that he might be better off taking _my_ head."

"So." Duncan turned the words over and over in his mouth. The rest of his crepe waited in his gloved hands, forgotten for the moment. "So what you're saying is… you feel safe with me."

"Sure, if you want to find the silver lining," Methos muttered, hunching his shoulders. Duncan nodded thoughtfully. Methos glanced at him. "And what, you're hinting that you… worry about me?"

Duncan's eyes flickered with something Methos wasn't sure he was ready to name yet. Never mind that he'd been praying for it for ages. Had near given up ever being able to have it again, from anyone.

"That I care," Duncan said simply.

Methos couldn't hold his gaze. He swallowed the lump in his throat and watched the sidewalk in front of him until he could speak again.

"You're right," he said at last. "It was a loaded question."

"I've got a question for you, then," Duncan stated, back to chewing through his crepe. Methos smirked, supremely glad of the familiar territory.

"Rules, MacLeod. Don't I get a break for the day?"

"No," Duncan shot back. He bumped Methos with his elbow.

"Fine." Methos stuffed the remainder of his crepe into his mouth to preclude further discussion, and gestured with one hand.

But Duncan's eyes stayed on him. "Do you think this helped?"

It took a second for Methos to understand the reference, and then he had to swallow a few times. His steps slowed, and Duncan halted alongside him beneath a tree strung with garlands and banded with silvery lights. Far off, the sound of a boat's horn cut through the night, and the faint, steady wash of the Seine could be heard. At last, Methos' mouth was empty. He looked up into Duncan's eyes and found them full of curious gold.

"Yes," he responded softly. Reached out and laid his hand on the other man's arm. "Yes, I do."

Duncan's fingers closed over his, warmth seeping through gloves from body to body. Methos turned his hand over and squeezed Duncan's fingers. Thought about the naïve innocence of question games.

"You know," he said after a moment of nothing but heat and shivers and eyes the color of eternity, "Paris isn't so bad in the winter."

Duncan stepped back, but kept Methos' hand firmly in his grip. "Oh? Spent many winters here?"

Methos scoffed, and they began to walk again. "I'll have you know that I spent winters in Paris before it _was_ Paris."

"Yeah, yeah. Those were the days, what has the world come to, I know. Show-off."

"Actually, it's quite a bit nicer now. Central heating's better nowadays."

The lights twinkled brightly over the streets as they made their way home.

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously can't take credit for Duncan and Methos' answers to the question of which Immortal they most regret killing. Those two answers (the names) are in tons of fics by other people. But I tried to be creative with the reasoning behind it. ^_^


End file.
